


The Blade and the Bow

by PJKRyong



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Post-Dragons (Overwatch), Post-Recall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 05:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17197454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJKRyong/pseuds/PJKRyong
Summary: For ten years, Hanzo Shimada has nurtured a reputation, an identity, a purpose. For ten years, he has survived. One fateful meeting shatters the fragile illusion Hanzo has manufactured. Surviving was everything. And it is not enough. In the aftermath, desperation pulls at him, tearing him in different directions, finally pushing him to accept another contract, to continue surviving. Betrayal muddies the waters. A playful, watchful eye weaves mind games into the quickly complicating tapestry. And at the centre of it all is the cause of the tremors in his tentative equilibrium, his brother, his very much living brother, Genji.





	The Blade and the Bow

**Author's Note:**

> The is most definitely a work in progress. I shall add tags as I encounter them. I have mapped out a general overview of the plot, but things may change as I write. Updates won't be terribly frequent, as I have a pretty hectic work/personal life, but I'll try as best I can.

          The screen flickered. Once. Twice. Garish purple light spilled over the hard lines of a sterile workspace. A single high-back chair sat empty in front of a darkened console. The purple deepened, casting shadows amongst the contents of the ceiling-high glass cases along the back wall of the laboratory.  
          A light chirp emanated from the sole doorway and the screen faded to black once more. With a synthetic hiss, the entrance lifted and artificial light flowed into the room.  
          “Yes, yes.” A voice drifted into the laboratory’s background hum, before its owner strode in, white coat trailing behind him.  
          “I know,” he huffed, wrinkled eyes darting to one of the metal tables. “Ah.”  
          In three strides, he closed the distance and snatched up a slim tablet.  
          “No, I’m listening. Just had to head back to the lab.” A pause. “I know.”  
          He rolled his eyes gently, rubbing at the bud in his ear with a forefinger.  
          “I won’t be lo—” His voice trailed off abruptly as his gaze settled on the console in front of the chair.  
          “One moment.”  
          Greying eyebrows drew together as he took two steps towards the work station. Leaning forwards, he brushed two fingers over the darkened interface. It flashed briefly.  
          He hummed, his brow furrowing further and prodded a circular icon. He watched the flashing indicator on the screen disappear, straightening as the unit darkened once more.  
          He shrugged, shaking his head.  
          “Sure I turned that off.”  
          Turning on his heel, he clasped the tablet he’d retrieved to his hip and headed for the door.  
          “Oh no, nothing, nothing. You were saying?”  
          The door closed with another hiss, enveloping the laboratory in darkness.  
          A mechanical whir broke through the ambient hum, quiet at first, until it was joined by another, and then another.

          —

          Rain pattered against the striped canopy in soft, rhythmic waves. Dark eyes stared upwards from under the safety of the tarpaulin, the steel gaze broken once by a slow blink.  
          Hanzo dropped his chin, his beard scratching against the high collar of the ski jacket. Venice offered a chilly and sodden November morning. Shoving gloved hands into the pockets of his black denims, he took two purposeful strides to the edge of the canopy’s shelter. Water dripped in rivulets off the edge of the tarpaulin, splashing his suede boots. The Italian weather had deemed to improve a little and the incessant pattering dulled. A light breeze occasionally guided a mist of drizzle under the canopy, prickling Hanzo’s face.  
          This area of the city, within the Cannaregio sestieri on the northern edge of Venice, hosted a conglomeration of modern residential blocks, lightweight and sleek, and the remnants of the old town, preserved as much as possible by the government for historical value, although nowhere near to the extent as the central Rialto region. It wasn’t overly busy during the off-season winter months, particularly at this time in the morning, but not empty enough for the well-built Japanese man to stand out.  
          Heavy grey clouds on the horizon promised no respite from the dreary weather, and so Hanzo took a step away from the safety of the canopy and began his walk up the fondamente. The cafe he left behind gave way to more eateries and occasional store fronts before the less colourful residences sprang up to his right. The canal gurgled to his left, swollen with rainwater, devoid of any of its usual traffic.  
          The hotel wasn’t far, and the ski jacket protected him from much of the elements, but his hair, even tied back behind his head as it was, already sagged and clung to the shaved undercut at his temples. His jaw tensed as he walked, resisting the urge to fuss over the recent change to his appearance, his hands sinking further into his pockets.  
          Stepping off the fondamente into a narrow lane leading away from the canal in a perpendicular fashion, Hanzo scanned the buildings to either side before resting on the end of the faux-cobble pathway. No other soul in sight, a slight relief as the width of the lane allowed him to walk down it with barely any room either side of his shoulders.  
          On his right, the smooth, uninterrupted wall of a towering apartment complex contrasted sharply against the aged series of stocky buildings opposite. Alcoves, nooks and sadly crumbling masonry broke up the monotony of the sandy walls, and it was at one of these alcoves, halfway up the lane, that he paused. With a quick glance up the path either way, he stooped, extracted a hand from a pocket and reached into the dark recess. It took a moment for his fingers to find what he was looking for, but when his grip found the wide strap, he tugged and pulled the backpack free. He dusted off the remains of ancient stonework, patted the exterior of the bag to gauge the contents, and slung it over one shoulder. All was as it should be.  
          With another perfunctory inspection of the lane’s entrances, he raised a foot to rest on a jutting piece of stonework. He tested whether it would take his weight. When it didn’t budge, he pushed off from his back leg and gripped an exposed pipe, scrambling up the side of the building with practiced ease. Pulling himself over the guttering, he crouched low on the gentle slope of the roof’s tiling and stilled.  
          Behind, the apartment complex protected him from view, but ahead of him, the peak of the roof dipped away to a gap between the buildings, another wider lane, and the windows of a white-washed three-storey home. He scanned the frontage, but saw no sign of movement, no eyes that could have spotted him. Picking his footing carefully, he turned and scurried over the tiles, body low, movements fluid. He dropped onto a lower, flat roof, his footwear making more noise than he would have liked.  
          Resting his back against the raised lip of the roof, he slung the backpack off his shoulder and pulled the drawstring holding it closed. He fished a long, grey cylinder from it, placing it with care next to him before using both hands to drag out a metal case. Pushing the backpack to one side, he placed the container before him, unfastening the clips and lifting the lid.  
          Hanzo relaxed as his fingers brushed over the blue metal of the riser sitting in the centre of the padded interior. He allowed himself no more indulgence, pulling a carbon fiber limb free, then the riser and screwing it in place. Occasionally he would glance over the top of the roof’s lip as he worked. The dip in the stonework allowed him vision of the fourth and fifth storeys of the hotel opposite. The red latticework that embellished the establishment’s signage glistened in the wet, dripping gifts onto passersby below. Each of the small windows sported dark green shutters, nearly black in the rain, and most were pulled shut. One pair of shutters, however, yawned open, a thin sheet of glass beyond the only protection against the elements. It was here that Hanzo’s focus flicked to.  
          Once the second limb was attached and secured, he fastened the grip in place, followed in short order by the stabiliser and the sight. Holding his palm out, facing the sky, he let the weapon teeter in the outstretched hand, finding its balance. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. _Stormbow_. Hanzo was whole again.  
          As he strung the bow, he rocked back on his heels, dipping out of sight of the window. His actions were mainly automatic at this point and he renewed his focus to ensure he was taking proper care. With Stormbow whole, he closed the lid of the case and rested the weapon atop it.  
          Dipping a hand into one of the numerous pockets in the ski jacket he pulled out the comm pad and flicked the screen. 08:57. _Perfect._  
          Another check of the window before he returned the metal case to the backpack, resting Stormbow in his lap, and turning to the cylinder. He unscrewed the cap and removed the contents, inspecting the condition of the arrows, ensuring the fletching hadn’t been damaged. Satisfied, he dropped the cylinder in the backpack too.  
          08:59. Hanzo rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles, before shuffling forwards to the hotel-side of the roof. He laid the arrows out beside him within easy reach.  
          He caught movement in his peripheral vision and with a jerk of his head his attention was on the window again. 09:01. _Right on time._  
          Remaining crouched, he pushed one leg back, shifting his centre of mass, and lifted the bow in his left hand. Grabbing the first arrow with a rounded head in his free hand, he rolled it between forefinger and thumb as he watched an elderly woman with wispy white hair come to the window. She struggled to open it as she had done the day before, pushing on the bottom of the frame with a puff of her cheeks until it shuddered once. It swung open easily then, and she stooped for a moment, pulling a tray back up with her and slotting it onto the outside of the windowsill. Its hook attachments held it and its cargo suspended above the street and pedestrians below. The light breeze rustled steadily darkening leaves as the rain soaked into the potted plants atop the tray. Hanzo watched their movements for a moment before abruptly nocking the arrow. He waited for the woman to turn from the window and pulled the string back, ski jacket rustling as his arm tensed. He counted the seconds silently.  
          With a twist of his shoulder, the bow tilted skywards and he released the string. The arrow shot noiselessly into an arc, and he followed its path as long as he could. It soared over the hotel’s roof, disappearing beyond its angular peaks. He continued counting as he lifted another arrow. This one’s head held a lethal tip. He nocked it and raised the bow again, sighting through the open window.  
          Splashes of red blossomed in his vision as the sonic arrow hit. He drew a breath. The ferry was seven seconds behind schedule. His eyes flicked to the plants. The wind had picked up. He slid his aim to the right. It would be a snug shot. He released his breath and with it the arrow.  
          The fletching cleared the arrow rest and he relaxed his wrist, letting the bow tilt down, as the arrow passed through the window, through the hotel room, through the opposite window and beyond where his natural sight could follow. His optical implants, however, filled in the blanks. Just as the sonic arrow stopped transmitting, the red mass on seat 24-B on the 08:45 Basilica bound ferry jerked, crumpling to the vessel’s floor.

          —

          The rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction of knowing the arrow would pierce where he intended, the confirmation of it doing just that, the calm afterwards as he had retreated swiftly and silently from his perch, all of that had faded. Now, huddled in the single-room apartment overlooking one of the city’s small and tucked away manufacturing districts, he ground his teeth, jaw muscles flexing visibly beneath his skin as he stared at the screen in front of him.  
          He exhaled forcefully through his nose, tossed the comm pad on the narrow bed and stood, pacing to the door. He turned abruptly after the three steps it took him to reach it and paced back, forcibly relaxing tensed fingers. As socked feet stilled again, he took two steadying breaths.  
          He needed to leave Venice. The kill had been public, as requested, clean, as expected. He had delivered. And he had left himself exposed. In a world of hard light and high tech weaponry, a death from a single arrow, shot from an indiscernible location limited the suspect pool dramatically.  
          Hanzo had been aware of the risks, had weighed them thoroughly. As big as the target on his back was before coming to Italy, it would now be bigger, the watchful eyes of criminal enterprises, bounty hunters and law enforcement agencies narrowing their focus on the name of Shimada Hanzo. No amount of meticulous planning could have avoided it. It had been an outcome he was willing to accept.  
          He lifted his chin, eyes sliding to the comm pad discarded on the bed. That was, however, until payment had been withheld. He felt his lip curling and he pressed his mouth into a thin line. The one reason he was here, had resorted to exposing himself.  
          Even with the appearance change, the myriad of false identities, the two weeks spent weaving a discordant path through southern Europe, he would not be able to avoid detection if he remained in the same city as his kill. He needed to leave Venice. Now. And without payment, he had no means to.  
          An acrid surge bubbled in his gut and he closed his eyes as he tamped down the sensation. After a moment, he returned to the bed, perching on its edge, his denims hiking up uncomfortably. He grunted, shifting the coarse material, and reclaimed the comm pad.  
          His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the words again. _Extended kill window. Unacceptable repercussions. Dissatisfying result._ This time he didn’t attempt to suppress the sneer.  
          As important as anonymity was to both parties in cryptomarket contracts, repeat transactions were not unheard of, and while Hanzo had no information on the identities behind his employers, he had accepted the Venice contract based on their existing relationship. Their payments had always been prompt, their satisfaction with his work methods high. They knew what to expect - his meticulous planning and execution. He cursed under his breath. How foolish he had been not to plan for this eventuality, how blind desperation had made him.  
          The down payment had funded his expenses on his journey through Europe, the setup, his living costs. Hanzo typed a hasty reply to the message as his mind desperately worked its way through the problem, trying to wrangle a solution. The remainder of that initial payment could grant him access to cheap public transport, but with public access came camera coverage, identity checks, high risk and little reward.  
          Another curse growled at the back of his throat as a notification flashed on his comm pad that the secure connection had been terminated. They’d cut him off, discarded him. His nostrils flared as he rose, gripping the pad all too tightly beneath whitening knuckles.  
          He snatched the abandoned backpack from the floor and shoved the comm device into it, followed shortly by the clothes he’d shed earlier and replaced. If he had to steal a vehicle to get out of Venice, he would. He just needed distance. Distance and time to explore other options. Options he should have already mapped out.  
          With the rest of his meager possessions hastily packed, he dropped the bag next to his boots at the door, giving the apartment a once over. It looked exactly as he had found it a week ago. Two steps and he was at the window, pulling one of the drawn curtains aside a sliver. Pale afternoon light filtered into the room and it took a second for his eyes to adjust. He scanned the street below. A couple wandered past his apartment building, oblivious to the watchful eyes. Satisfied that little else moved, he let the curtain fall back into place.  
          Hanzo’s shoulders tensed as the lighting in the room took on an abruptly different hue. He blinked once, his gaze sliding left as he turned. His eyes narrowed as his focus landed on the screen for the apartment’s smart system. He hadn’t used it once since he’d first arrived in Venice and yet now its sleek logo pulsed at him from across the room. His first instinct was to reach for Stormbow. Even as his fingers flexed and his foot moved forwards, he reined the urge in. The weapon still sat in its case, disassembled. He stared at the screen, other senses straining to pick up on any signs of danger. He took a slow breath, and then another, taut muscles relaxing. Nothing. Fight or flight instinct settling, his brow furrowed. Perhaps it had just been a fault. Giving the smart system an irrationally wide berth, he made his way to the door, the desire to leave Venice behind steadily increasing.  
          As he pushed his feet into the suede boots, the cool blues from the smart system flickered and he froze. A purple haze washed over the room and his sole thudded into the floor as he yanked the last boot on. He grabbed at the bag next to him and backpedaled past the door, putting solid wall behind him. His eyes darted from the screen to the corners of the room, to the window, to the door. A surge of adrenaline fueled the pulse drumming in his ears.  
          His head jerked up as the apartment’s speakers, nestled into the ceiling above the screen, buzzed. The tone dropped just as quickly and his eyes widened as the first lilting notes of music played. His heart raced, his mind clambering over itself in its confusion. The simple melody repeated twice, before a sing-song voice joined in. It repeated two lines over and over, the hiss of static cutting the song short each time. His breath stumbled in his throat as his brain sluggishly translated the English words to Japanese.

_“Which is the bow that has no arrow?_

_The rainbow that never killed a sparrow.”_

          Ice flooded his veins as the blood drained from Hanzo’s face. The muscles in his brow, his cheeks, his jaw locked, a picture of stone. Abruptly, the music stopped, the lyrics echoing in his skull, mocking him. Drawing to his full height slowly, fingers adjusting his grip on the backpack, he pulled away from the wall, spine rigid. The constant purple glow from the screen fluttered, splashes of a lighter hue adorning its surface. With measured steps, and a glance at the door, he moved just enough to get a clear view on the monitor.  
          A pale blue square blinked at him on the left of the screen. He took in a steadying breath through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run. This was not something that could be handled by an arrow to a throat, or a steely look. He didn’t even know what this was. Mind games. Manipulation. Someone was trying to send a message. He flicked another look to the door. Far too elaborate for the usual calibre of assassins sent to wipe his stain from the world.  
          The lyrics helpfully replayed in his head and his brow twitched, flashes of buried memories threatening to surface. He swallowed forcefully, as if the action would replicate in his mind.  
          The blinking square moved, dashing across the screen, revealing text, Roman characters, English words.

           ** _The sparrow flits out of reach…_**

          Hanzo’s teeth juddered as he ground them together. More nonsense rhymes.

_**Uncaged and free…** _

           _Free._ He turned the word over in his mind, his lip curling.

           ** _Alas, freedom is fleeting…_**

          He schooled his expression, a flare of nostrils the only outward sign of the emotions warring within. This was foolish, staring as if enraptured as the text flashed onto the screen. His head jerked briefly, eyes darting around him. What purpose did this game have? Was he being watched? Hunted? Distracted? His breaths quickened.

           ** _Whose reach will envelop the sparrow first?_**

          “Enough,” he growled, the English feeling clumsy on his tongue.  
          He suppressed the urge to tear the monitor from the wall, turning on his heel to face the door and taking an immediate step. If the barrels of rifles faced him when he left the apartment, it would be better than gawking like a startled doe at nonsensical words. He refused to play this game.  
          He froze mid-stride as the text flicked away, replaced by a square of moving footage, a camera feed judging by the quality. His head turned, his eyes widening.  
          The glint of chrome and flash of green luminance sparked recognition even before the image stilled, settling on the all too familiar features of the cyborg. Hunched low, peering at the ground far below, the synthetic muscles coiled, ready to release the living weapon. One sinewy arm reached up slowly, metal fingers wrapping around a nanofibre hilt.  
          “Genji,” he breathed.


End file.
